


Four Times Aramis Was Romantic, and The One Time Porthos Beat Him To It

by fritz_winky



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Porthos has feelings, Romance, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritz_winky/pseuds/fritz_winky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What’s all this then?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Well, Porthos, I had suspected a man of your caliber would be able to assess that it’s supper, firewood, and a little something extra to keep us warm, but I see that’s not the case.”  Aramis lights the candles, casting a gentle glow around the room.  “If you must know, all this is supper, firewood, and a little something extra to keep us warm.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Aramis Was Romantic, and The One Time Porthos Beat Him To It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wherethefigslie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethefigslie/gifts).



The night is cold and even in the small hotel room, Porthos can see his breath freezing and hanging on the air. He grumbles to himself about getting stuck with the lousy jobs, about how Athos always gets to go to the good places where there’s decent food and people who tend to fires, about anything that crosses his mind while he sits there with his arms wrapped around himself. At least, he thinks, Aramis has the misfortune of being there with him, but he’s nowhere in sight. Probably found the only woman within a two-mile radius to share a bed with, Porthos thinks, growing sourer. With a huff, he stomps his feet on the floor to get the blood flowing and wraps his cloak tighter around himself.

Just then, the door swings open with a reluctant creak, and in walks Aramis, cheeks rosy and moustache edged with frost. He looks, for all the world, entirely delighted, and before Porthos can even ask what’s got him so bloody chipper, Aramis dumps a sack out on to the floor. The contents, chopped wood and several blankets, make Porthos raise his eyebrows. But then Aramis is pulling bread and cheese and dried meats, and candles with crude holders, from another little pack, and Porthos finally snorts.

“What’s all this then?”

“Well, Porthos, I had suspected a man of your caliber would be able to assess that it’s supper, firewood, and a little something extra to keep us warm, but I see that’s not the case.” Aramis lights the candles, casting a gentle glow around the room. “If you must know, all this is supper, firewood, and a little something extra to keep us warm.”

“Always so clever, you are.” There is no delight to Porthos’ voice. He reaches for one of the blankets to wrap around himself, blatantly ignoring the laughter coming from Aramis as he gets a fire going in the small, dirty fireplace in the corner of the room.

“Someone needs to keep you on your toes.” It’s a bit of trial and error, but eventually Aramis gets the fire started. The warmth is instantly welcomed by both men. “Besides,” Aramis continues, walking over to the lopsided table so he can lay out the food, “it’s your birthday, and I wanted to make it memorable for more than this ridiculously ill-timed job.”

Porthos shifts a bit. He hadn’t forgotten his birthday, of course not, but he’s generally used to spending it in the city and drinking up a stupor. Just another thing to be bitter about. For some reason, though, he hadn’t expected Aramis to remember, or to even put in any effort, and he doesn’t want to let on how pleased that makes him.

Aramis organizes the food on to a tray, adding a little cake that Porthos hadn’t seen him take out. Porthos has half a mind to ask where in this God-forsaken piece of land Aramis even found all of this, but when he feels the other man’s thigh pressed against his own, he seems to forget about his questions.   Then Aramis is holding up small portions of food, and Porthos is all too glad to open his mouth to accept them, occasionally nibbling at Aramis’s fingers. It goes back and forth, until little kisses are exchanged between bites, then kisses that make them forget the food all together. Before the cake can even be touched, the tray is knocked to the floor as the two men roll back onto the small, hard bed, and piece-by-piece their clothing joins it.

In the minutes that follow, the room is filled with little moans and sighs. As the sound finishes reverberating off the walls, the sweat on both their bodies begins to grow clammy in the cold, and Porthos huffs.

“Let’s move by the fire,” he murmurs, momentarily focused on kissing some sweat from Aramis’s neck.

“Good idea. We’ll catch our deaths, and I’d prefer not to explain this one.”

Aramis nudges at Porthos and stands up, wrapping a couple of the blankets around his waist. Porthos tugs the mattress from its frame and drops it to the floor in front of the fire, coughing dramatically as a cloud of dust puffs up around it. Behind him, Aramis merely rolls his eyes, and the two find themselves wrapped up in one another’s arms.

“Much better,” Aramis says, stealing a few kisses for himself.

“Hmm,” agrees Porthos. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

"I prefer _romantic._ ”

“Well. That, too.”

There’s a pause, then the two dissolve into fits of laughter, and Porthos doesn’t mind, suddenly, being stuck where he is.

 

***

 

“What’s gotten into him?”

Aramis leans against one of the posts in the garrison, biting into an apple as he watches Porthos, who appears to be in the middle of a very lively and angry conversation with some of the other musketeers.

“He’s going on about something about a belt,” d’Artagnan replies. From where he’s sitting on the stairs, he’s got a good view of the scene as well. “That’s really all I could make out when I tried talking to him.”

“A belt?” Aramis frowns.

“You know,” says Athos, walking over to join them. He takes the apple from Aramis with an exasperated sort of sigh. “ _The_ belt. The one with the solid gold buckle. His favourite.”

“The solid gold, _broken_ buckle,” Aramis reminds him. But he gets a nod from Athos, and he turns to look back at Porthos. “What about it?”

“Apparently, someone’s stolen it.” Athos doesn’t notice the look that crosses Aramis’ face. “You know, he’s had it tucked away in a drawer while he’s been trying to save up the money to get it fixed. You can imagine he’s out for blood.”

Aramis sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No one’s stolen it. I have it.”

“What?” D’Artagnan, who’s only half been paying attention in favour of watching Porthos terrify their friends, looks up. “And he doesn’t know? Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

“I was going,” Aramis explains, “for an element of surprise. I know that’s a hard concept for you to understand, d’Artagnan, my young friend. But Athos is right. Porthos has had that belt sitting in that drawer for a year now, and every time he almost has the money to get it fixed, he drinks or gambles it away. I was getting tired of seeing him mope around.” He turns to his friends and gives them a bow, then walks toward Porthos.

“He’s going to get his face punched in,” mutter d’Artagnan. He’s torn between looking excited to see it happen and a bit worried for Aramis.

Athos just lets an amused sound around the apple. “Porthos has only ever punched Aramis once, and Aramis made sure he regretted it later. I don’t think it’s bound to happen again.”

D’Artagnan, for his part, doesn’t look very convinced, considering he’d nearly gotten a broken nose from it and he’d never even heard of the belt until now. He is, however, more than happy to sit back and watch, and he’s wondering if maybe he should have made a bet with Athos.

Porthos is fuming by the time Aramis reaches him. The men he’d been interrogating have managed to run off, and when Aramis touches his shoulder, Porthos rounds on him. His expression seems to soften, minutely though it is, and he folds his arms. Aramis, he knows, will be rightfully outraged.

“Some bastard’s made off with my belt. I’d like to meet the man who did it, so I can punch the nerve right out of him.”

Aramis sighs a bit, keeping his hand on Porthos’ shoulder. It’s a skill he’s crafted over the years, how different touches can calm Porthos to at least a more agreeable degree. He applies the slightest bit of pressure, then brushes his fingers across Porthos’ neck.

“Running around and scaring everybody isn’t going to get your belt back,” he says. “Let’s go to your apartments, and we’ll have a look together and see what we can figure out.”

Porthos snorts, not unlike an angry bull, but he sees Aramis’ reasoning. After a moment, he nods, and as both he and Aramis walk off they don’t notice the smug look Athos gives d’Artagnan.

When they find themselves in Porthos’ room, Aramis closes the door behind them while Porthos strides to the empty drawer.

“You see, it was right here, you remember –“

“Porthos.” Aramis holds up a hand to silence his friend. “It wasn’t a thief that took your belt. It was me. I have it in my bag right now.”

“What? You –“ Porthos frowns. He can’t bring himself to be as fitfully angry as he had been, but he can be displeased, and he fixes Aramis with a look that suggests he better explain. And fast.

“Relax. I had no ill intentions.” Aramis gives Porthos a dismissive wave. He takes his bag and sets it on the bed, rooting through it. “As you know, an old friend of mine was taking up lodging a few hours outside of the city, and Treville gave me leave for a few days so I could pay him a visit. Ah ah ah, close your mouth, I’m not finished.” He glances over his shoulder, fixing Porthos with a look. “In that town is a man who is, in my opinion, better than most craftsmen you’ll find within Paris, though, unfortunately, very few seem to know of him. I’ve had some extra money saved and it was too good an opportunity to pass up, so I took your belt to him.”

At last, Aramis finds the belt wrapped up in its paper in the bag. He hands it to Porthos, who seems stunned into silence, and also vague disbelief. Carefully, Porthos unwraps the paper, and there it is, looking almost better than it had when he’d first bought it.

“I – You –“ Porthos grumbles to himself. He hates being made a fool of, but the gesture is sweet and so like Aramis. Even when he looks over to see laughter threatening to overtake his friend, Porthos finds himself calming down. “You had me all riled up, you know.”

“Yes, I saw. You know how much I enjoy getting you worked up.” Aramis holds out his arms, looking amused as Porthos steps into them. “Well, are you going to punch the nerve right out of me?”

“I ought to.” Porthos noses at Aramis’s neck. “But, given circumstances, I think I can forgive you. This time.”

“Just admit it. You adore me.”

Porthos just laughs as he stumbles them back to the bed, knowing that he doesn’t need to say anything at all for Aramis to know just how adored he is.

 

***

 

The tavern isn’t very full. It’s a handful of local townsfolk and a few travelers, but the noise of chatter and cups clinking seems almost worse to Porthos than that in Paris. Maybe agreeing to do a bit of outward scouting had been a poor choice, given how under the weather he is, but he likes a chance to get out of the city. He thought that maybe the country would perk him up a bit, but the riding has only seemed to make him worse.

Across the table from him, Aramis gives him worried looks. Eventually, he leans over, resting his hand just briefly on Porthos’ before taking his glass away.

“Come, my friend, you should be sleeping, not drinking. If you pass out, I’ll never be able to haul you up the stairs.”

Porthos mutters that he’s fine, but Aramis gets up anyway. He walks around the table to help Porthos up, when his ears catch the harsh laughter of some men sitting at a table nearby.   It doesn’t take him long to realize their laughter is directed at Porthos.

“Excuse me, sirs,” Aramis says, turning to face the group. He takes off his hat and gives them a curt nod, though it’s nothing more than a formality. “I’m afraid I must comment that it seems ungentlemanly to target a man that’s obviously ill.”

“Ill?” A man in the middle of the table, perhaps not much older than Athos, barks out a harsh laugh. “There’s no need to make excuses to cover your embarrassment. Not our fault you think you can dress your man up and parade him about in front of decent folks, trying to make him fit in. Can’t even hold his liquor – look at him.”

Aramis takes in a breath. As a rule, he tries to maintain a level of politeness. Not all conflict, after all, needs to be solved with violence, but he takes jabs at Porthos very personally. “I regret to inform you that you’re mistaken. This man belongs to no one but himself, and it would likely serve you well in the future to mind your tongue about affairs you have no knowledge about.”

“You think yourself some sort of gentleman, then, do you?” asks the man. He gives Aramis a look of disdain, glancing over him as he sizes him up. “Oh, yes, I see it now. You think you’re well above the rest of us, just because you’ve taken it upon yourself to befriend a n-“

Aramis has his pistol drawn and pointed at the man before the word can leave his lips. “I told you,” he says, voice clipped, “to mind your tongue.” As a hush falls around the tavern, he lowers the gun. “We can do this two ways, sir. The first way is that I can shoot this pistol and leave you on this dirty floor to bleed out, and my friend and I would be back in Paris before yours could even lodge their complaints. However, as I am, as you mentioned, some sort of gentleman, I would prefer the second way. A duel, if you’d please.”

The man at the table watches Aramis, lips pressed in a thin line, and Porthos nudges at his friend.

“Leave him be,” he mutters, “all this is doing my head in. S’not worth it.”

“Yes, why don’t you listen to your friend, there. You’ll only embarrass him, protecting his honour like he’s some sort of damsel.” There’s a round of laughter from the table, and Aramis can only quirk his lips up in a false smile.

“On the contrary, I would never think of Porthos has anything less than a man of bravery and heroics. He is a man who, on several occasions, has done much more for me than I’ve ever asked of him. I am very, truly honoured to call him friend, and when attack my friend’s honour, you in turn attack my own. So, I ask you again, would you prefer the first way, or the second way?”

There is some mild chatter amongst the patrons. Judging by the excitement, Aramis can guess that, at least locally, the man is probably known for being quite good with a sword. No doubt they find him foolish, but he’ll use that to his advantage. When he man stands, he gives Aramis a bow, as insincere as the smile Aramis had just given him.

“A duel, then, for I too fancy myself some sort of a gentleman.” He smirks. “A friend of mine owns an estate on the edge of town, you surely saw it as you rode in. On his grounds is a garden that has a perfect spot, hidden from view, where we shall conduct our fight. I hope it doesn’t deter you that I’m an early riser, and suggest the duel for seven in the morning.”

“As it happens, I also rise early, and you’ll find me in remarkable spirits come seven. Adieu, sir, I look forward to besting you come morning.”

The laughter and jeers follow Aramis and Porthos as they go up the stairs to the rooms they’re renting out for their short stay. They say nothing of the challenge until the morning, when Porthos insists of going with Aramis, even though his illness hasn’t passed.

“Never pass up a chance to watch you in action,” he says, managing to smirk a bit as he rides alongside Aramis to the estate. “A bit sneaky of you, really, to not let him know how good you are with a sword.”

“You think I’m good at everything,” Aramis replies, giving Porthos an amused look.

“Only because you are.”

The two share a long laugh. When they get to their destination, Aramis helps Porthos dismount his horse, and they walk together to the gardens. There, they find the other party already waiting, and the man from the night before still has a snide look on his face.

“Punctual, I see. We still have ten minutes before seven, unless you’d like to start early.”

“If you will, sir, I’d like to take these ten minutes as a chance to prepare myself.” Aramis deposits his coat and hat with Porthos. “It would, after all, only be fair since I assume you have been preparing _your_ self since you arrived.”

While his challenger doesn’t look pleased, he accepts Aramis’ request. Porthos leans against a tree to watch. He’s always admired Aramis’ ability to focus, but he knows that this is more than Aramis simply getting his head in the game. He can tell by the way that Aramis paces that he’s testing the traction of the dew soaked grass, or how he’s gauging visibility due to the early morning fog still hanging around them. They’re things that a serious dueler might start to take into consideration, but a soldier, a man who makes his life out of this, never fails to figure it all into play. Porthos doesn’t think for a second that Aramis will lose.

With one minute left to go until the clock strikes seven, Aramis turns to look at Porthos. Unseen by the others, he puckers his lips in a slight kissing action toward him, then bows. Porthos just shakes his head, but he can’t deny that he’s fallen in love with Aramis all over again for this. He bows back, then slides down to sit against the tree. Here’s hoping he doesn’t fall asleep during the fight.

As Aramis had predicted, the man he’s up against is, indeed, quite skilled. His attacks and defenses are well placed, and he manages to keep up with Aramis well. Aramis, however, notices that the slick grass is starting to throw his opponent off. While the man starts to let his mind wander to maintaining his footing, his swordsmanship loses its quickness. Aramis is good at using a second’s delay to his advantage, and when he thrusts his sword forward, the man is taken off guard and steps back. His boot catches in the mud and he slips, the sword falling him his hand as he hits the ground, and Aramis puts a foot on his chest.

“You know,” Aramis says, glancing around at the estate, “I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. Let’s settle this like the Romans of old used to, shall we?” He smiles down at the man, then looks to Porthos. “Porthos, my brother in arms, as I dedicate this fight to you, I look to you to finish it. Thumbs up, or thumbs down?”

Beneath his boot, Aramis feels the man squirm. They both watch as Porthos takes his time deciding, then he gives a thumbs up, which gets a sigh of relief from the loser.

“It would appear that both my friend and God have decided to give you mercy. Let this be a lesson to you for the future to withhold your judgment on any man, no matter what colour his skin is.”

Aramis sheaths his sword and goes back to Porthos, giving him a hand to help him stand. As they walk away, he shrugs his coat back on, and he looks over at Porthos.

“What? Why are you smiling like that?”

“Just thinking how lucky I am to have you, is all,” he says, and he watches as Aramis looks to the ground to hide a shy sort of smile. “I love how protective you get of me. Once I’m feeling better, I’ll show you just how much I appreciate it.”

Aramis laughs, climbing up into the saddle of his horse. “Come on, you need some rest.”

“Only if you come rest with me.”

“How could I ever say no?”

 

 ***

 

“Promise me you’ll be safe out there?”

Porthos frowns as he sits on Aramis’ bed, watching his friend pack his bag. He hates when any of them get sent out on things without another one of them going along, but he hates especially when it’s Aramis. Porthos knows that Aramis is smart and lucky, but he always remembers Aramis barely coming home alone after the Savoy incident and it makes him uneasy.

“It’s not as if I’m riding into battle,” Aramis says. He looks over, giving Porthos a sympathetic smile. “It’s just that this man might know something that could possible ignite a war, and we need to make sure we get him safely back to Paris so they can find out where his information came from. We’ll be gone and back in a matter of days.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Porthos grumbles, getting up to cross the small room. He wraps his arms around Aramis and presses his nose to the other man’s neck, holding him close. “You know that as much as you worry about me, I worry about you.”

“I know. And I’d never want to disappoint you.”   Aramis turns in Porthos’ arms, and gives him a kiss with a smile. “Besides, I’ve got my lucky token to take with me.”

“Oh, have you?” It’s hard for Porthos to look amused over the jealous feeling that twists his stomach a little. “Queen Anne’s necklace, then? Or has some young maiden bestowed her handkerchief upon you?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Well, the necklace was, of course, going to go with him. But Aramis didn’t think of that as a token anymore as much as a gift that he holds dear, and a reminder of the monarchy he’s sworn to defend. He turns around again, and from his bag he lifts the bandana that Porthos had gotten him not too long ago for his birthday. “Why should I need any handkerchief’s when I’ve got the only token I want?”

Porthos laughs, the sound resonating through his chest as he presses a kiss to Aramis’ hair.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he says, resting his chin on Aramis’ shoulder while he finishes packing.

“How I do what?”

“Blindside me. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be used to how stupidly romantic and affectionate you are, but I never see it coming.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” Aramis smiles, turning his head to press a kiss to Porthos’ temple. “It’s not easy, figuring out ways to be spontaneously romantic once you’ve done it as much as I have.”

“I’m starting to think you’re just always romantic and I’ve gotten so used to it, it just sneaks up on me.”

Aramis laughs. He walks his fingers along Porthos’ hands, leaning back into him. “Then I’ll make sure I take extra care to come back, so I can continue to surprise you with my romantic ways.”

“Good.”

 

***

 

When Aramis returns home, in a few days as promised, he’s surprised to find that Porthos has been granted leave and isn’t in Paris. He is even more surprised to learn that Treville is giving him leave, as well, for his excellent service, and that Porthos has left him a note. The note says nothing more than the address of the craftman’s shop where Aramis got the belt fixed, and Aramis laughs. Just like Porthos to go get himself something else shiny to wear.

Aramis doesn’t bother unpacking his bags. He fetches his horse from the stables and apologizes to him that their ride isn’t quite over yet. He takes the trip a bit slower anyway. There’s no need to rush, as Aramis had arrived in Paris early in the morning, and Porthos has no real notion of when to expect him.

Except that Porthos isn’t in the little town. Aramis checks the one inn and frowns, then makes his way to the craftman’s shop. He’s seen Porthos, yes, only yesterday, and he presents Aramis with another note. Aramis doesn’t open it until he’s back with his horse. This note simply names the tavern they’d been to on the day that Aramis had challenged the ignorant man to a duel.

Of course, Aramis suspect Porthos is up to something now. The man can be witty, but he’s no good at subtlety. He knows, too, that Aramis is curious and sometimes impatient, and is probably getting a laugh out of this. Wherever he is. The tavern isn’t much further away, though. Aramis arrives by mid-afternoon, greeted by the very man he bested those many months ago, though he’s not surprised to find a letter being handed to him. With an amused huff, he rides on, getting to the old building in the middle of nowhere as quick as he can.

He doesn’t expect to find Porthos here. Porthos had hated this place, and even looking at it makes Aramis feel a chill despite the warmth of summer around him. He walks up the creaky stairs to the bedroom, laughing at the sight of the mattress still collecting dust and ash next to the fireplace. This note, however, perplexes Aramis. He can only assume it’s the name of an estate, but he’s never heard of it, nor does he know what town or city it lies by. The only other words tell Aramis to continue in the direction he’s been heading since he left Paris, and Aramis knows to trust Porthos on this. The sun is starting to set, but Porthos would never lead Aramis anywhere he couldn’t be found.

It’s dark by the time Aramis finds the next town on the road. He seeks out some help in an inn to ask about the estate, and the man points to a large house looming not too far out of the town limits. He fits Aramis with a lantern, warning that even though it’s not too far, the estate veers off the road and in the darkness anyone can get thrown off track and lost. Despite his objections, Aramis leaves the man with a few coins before riding off toward the silhouette of the house against stars.

Aramis rides through the gates and up the path. He hopes this is the last point in his journey, otherwise he’ll have to likely beg for a room for the night. His horse can’t take anymore travelling and the dark makes Aramis wary in unknown places. He barely takes a few steps to the door when it swings open and Porthos grins at him from the porch.

“Took you long enough,” he says, slapping Aramis on the back. “I was about ready to start worrying. Go on inside, I’ll take this one round to the stables.”

Seeing that he’s not getting any further explanation, Aramis does as he’s told. He puts out the lantern and glances around the entranceway. It’s a very nice house. It’s decorated tastefully, though perhaps a bit behind a few decades, and it seems empty save for him and Porthos. He wanders into the adjoining room when he hears the door close and lock, followed soon by the feeling of Porthos’ lips on his neck.

“Glad you’re all right.”

“I did tell you I would be, didn’t I?” Aramis smirks a bit. “Now do I get to know what this is all about, or are you going to continue to be mysterious about it?”

“I think mystery suits me quite nicely, actually.” Porthos laughs. “Come on. Are you hungry?” He takes Aramis by the hand and leads him through the house, up the stairs to the second floor.

“No, I had a bite at the tavern before the old inn.”

“Good. Straight to bed, then.” Porthos gives Aramis a cheeky look. “This is my home. What do you think about it?”

“I’m sorry. Your home?” Aramis laughs. “You’ve always been one for stories, Porthos, but I do think I’m deserving of the truth this time around.”

Porthos looks offended. “I’m hurt, Aramis, that you’d think I was lying. I promise you, God as my witness, this is my home.” He looks at the skeptical look on Aramis’ face and huffs, then shrugs.

“When I left the Court of Miracles, I didn’t have anyway to make money. Never made an honest living in my life before that point. The man that lived here, he was a Baron, his family had been wealthy and he was money smart. Made a lot of smart investments and knew how to save it all. He was a good man, too. He gave a good lot of his money to charity. It was his charity work that brought him to Paris, and I guess I was in the right place at the right time. I know he saw me and looked at me like another soul he could help, but I couldn’t complain. He asked me if I knew Paris, I told him I knew it like the back of my hand, he paid me to show him through the streets to his destination. Asked me if I knew how to mind a horse. I didn’t of course, but I’d seen other men do it, so I told him I did. I ended up being his help his entire visit, and every one after that. It paid well, kept me off the streets.”

They eventually find themselves in a bedroom that’s decorated more lavishly than anything either of them are generally used to. While they undress, Aramis raises an eyebrow.

“And, what, he just gave you a house?” Aramis laughs as he tugs off his boots.

“Hey, now, let me finish. You always get to finish your stories.” Porthos gives him a gentle cuff to the back of the head.

“Sorry, sorry, carry on.”

Porthos cracks a laugh. “It ended up that I started coming out to the country, out here, to help mind the house when he went on business and personal trips. Got to know the place pretty well. He didn’t keep a lot of help, just people that needed the money and that he could trust. He was a good man,” Porthos says again. He pauses in the middle of taking off his own boots, looking a bit sad and distant. “It was him who recommended me to Treville, you know, all those years ago. He said he knew I’d fit in there, it was the first time anyone had ever told me I’d be good for anything. He got sick not too long after. I was off on a training exercise with the cadets when he died, but he had his will sent to Treville. Left me the whole estate, he did. So I took his name. Du Vallon. That’s what his name was.”

Aramis leans back on the bed and watches Porthos as he talks. Once he’s done, Aramis crawls over, dropping a kiss to Porthos’ shoulder and nuzzling at his hair.

“He was a good judge of character,” he says, kissing Porthos’ ear, “to see the goodness in you. You’ve never mentioned any of this before.”

“Never saw any need to.” Porthos shrugs. “I come out here when I want to be alone, or to think. Figured now was a good time to share it with you.”

“I don’t want to alarm you, Porthos,” Aramis tells him, smiling, “but you do realize this is very romantic of you.”

“Well, I did learn from the best.” Porthos laughs a little, turning around to press Aramis down against the bed. “By the way, I got you a better token. Much as I love the bandana I got you, I figured maybe you should have something better to wear when you’re being an impulsive fool.”

Aramis is about to take back his comment about Porthos being romantic, but suddenly there’s a ring being held out to him. It’s well-crafted silver, plain and simple save for the fleur-de-lis carefully etched on to the top of it. Aramis, for once, finds himself speechless as he takes it.

“Porthos, this is –“

“Not any worse than you getting my belt fixed for me, or any of the other things you’ve ever done. I’m not taking it back, so you might as well keep it.” Porthos fixes his friend with a look until Aramis slips the ring on, then he smiles and leans down to kiss him.

It’s a slow kiss, unhurried and lingering. They don’t get many chances to do this. Even in the city, when they’re in their own homes, the risk of being caught always weighs on their minds. It’s nice to not worry, to be able to enjoy the feeling of being pressed together, and Porthos has every intention to take advantage of every moment.

He trails kisses down Aramis’ neck, lingering on all the spots that make Aramis sigh and shift, nipping gently enough to solicit a reaction but not wanting to leave a mark. Not tonight. Porthos kisses over Aramis’ stomach, his hips, along his thigh and at his ankle. He murmurs all the sweet endearments that come to his mind, meaning every one of them so sincerely that Aramis has to sit up to kiss them all from his lips.

“I’ve always wanted to do this with you,” Porthos admits, nudging their noses together before pressing Aramis back down. “Hate that we have to come all the way out here for it.” If he had his choice, he’d take Aramis to bed like this all the time, and, judging by the way Aramis is smiling at him, he thinks Aramis agrees.

Porthos gets out of bed only long enough to get the oil from the dresser and blow out all of the candles except for the one beside the bed. He stretches out beside Aramis and pulls him close, chest to chest, giving him another one of those leisurely kisses before slicking up his fingers.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs, running oily fingers over Aramis’ hip and along the curve of his ass.

“For you?” Aramis replies, his voice barely a breath. “Always.”

Porthos eases a finger gently inside and Aramis makes the softest of sounds, not willing to let himself ruin the moment by letting himself get carried away. Porthos draws their hips closer, peppering kisses along Aramis’s cheek and hair. As the tension eases away, Porthos adds a second finger, and soon a third. He works his hand only enough to help ease the way, twisting and stretching his fingers until Aramis is starting to tremble in his arms and is being reduced to nothing but quick breaths and quiet moans.

“Beautiful,” Porthos murmurs. He presses a kiss to Aramis’ ear and draws his hand away, rolling them until he’s stretched on top of Aramis. He takes a moment to brush the hair from Aramis’ eyes and oils himself up, then, with the lightest brush of lips against lips, pushes inside with as much care as he can muster.

They stay a moment joined together, neither moving, listening to other breathing. Porthos rests his forehead to Aramis’s chest and stretches out on top of him once more, starting a slow and easy rock of his hips. Aramis presses his fingers lightly against Porthos’ back, keeping him close, feeling the way the muscles move beneath scars and skin. Every time he feels Porthos press into him he whimpers a little, tingles running along his spine, the friction of Porthos’ stomach against his cock making him shudder and buck his hips involuntarily.

But neither of them rush. Porthos kisses at the sweat starting to bead at Aramis’ throat as he glances up to see Aramis’ face in the dim candlelight. Like a painting, Porthos thinks. He swallows down a groan and wraps an arm around Aramis, like he might be able to bring him closer still, and Aramis lets out a drawn out moan.

“Porthos,” he murmurs.

“I know.” Porthos feels the tension pulling at his stomach and feels it in the muscles at Aramis’ hips and in his arms. He presses his face into Aramis’ neck as he hits his release, emptying inside Aramis. He pulls away to sit up, reaching to take Aramis’ cock in his hand. It only takes a few strokes of his fingers before Aramis spills over, and Porthos leans over to take Aramis face in his hands and kiss him sweetly.

Porthos leaves the bed again and comes back with a cloth to clean them up. He blows out the remaining candle, pulls the blankets up, drawing Aramis into his arms again.

“Aramis,” Porthos says, after a few minutes of silence, “I just want you to know. I –“

“I know,” Aramis murmurs, smiling into Porthos’ chest. “I do, too.”

Porthos smiles, too, never having needed any confirmation, either. He’ll regret when they have to return to Paris, but for now, he doesn’t think he could ask for anything more than this.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A belated Valentine's Day story for my dear friend, the Porthos to my Aramis~
> 
> Just proof that they, too, can have their sweet moments when they want to.


End file.
